


Lost Guns

by Catatonic



Category: Lost Boys (1987), Young Guns (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Historical Fantasy, Historical References, Lost Boys, Lost Boys (1987) - Freeform, The Lost Boys (1987) - Freeform, Vampires, Western, Young Guns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 11:02:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6236131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catatonic/pseuds/Catatonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"Young Guns"/"The Lost Boys" Crossover Set in 1878*</p><p>**For the purpose of this fanfiction, the characters of "Dirty Steve" Stephens and Charlie Bowdre have survived the events of the Lincoln County War and remain in the company of William H. Bonny.</p><p>This work is presented in the first-person perspective of Regulator Josiah "Doc" Scurlock, unless denoted otherwise.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Lost Guns

**Author's Note:**

> "Young Guns"/"The Lost Boys" Crossover Set in 1878*
> 
> **For the purpose of this fanfiction, the characters of "Dirty Steve" Stephens and Charlie Bowdre have survived the events of the Lincoln County War and remain in the company of William H. Bonny.
> 
> This work is presented in the first-person perspective of Regulator Josiah "Doc" Scurlock, unless denoted otherwise.

 

Billy and I sat alone in the room, counting coins as well as hours. Dirty Steve had excused himself of boredom and coaxed his aching feet to take a walk to the bedroom. Charlie and Chavez watered the horses—Either those horses were the thirstiest in history, or we'd picked one hell of an afternoon to try and travel from New Mexico to California. Thanks to the efforts of the Western Union just seven years ago, Alex was able to wire two dollars in the form of cash to the account of a Mr. Max Birdwell; we were to stay on with Mr. Birdwell for the remainder of the summer in return for services provided.

I had left Yen in the care of Alexander and Susan McSween. Susan and Yen had become close since the days following the death of Lawrence Murphy—it was then that Yen and I had agreed to be married. We also agreed that until that day comes true, she was safer with the McSweens than in the company of us Regulators. San Francisco had begun a racial riot, and the side that mattered were unkind to the Chinese people. And Billy the Kid and I still had some business to take care of. . .

The Mission district was originally a marshland with creeks and shallow lakes. Landfill began in the 1860s. Now 1878, it wasn't much more than a mess of swamp and best-laid plans. The locals reckoned that in as little as ten years, there would be up to four hundred acres of solid ground here. Mr. Birdwell had his own ideas about the ground: Atop the ground was to be a hotel, a grand four-story structure, wooden of frame with a brick foundation. It would be called the Valencia Hotel, as it would reside on Valencia Street.

 

***

 

At last the evening brought a cool breeze. We arrived at Max's place just before sunset, where the front door gazed down a long, lonely stretch of lawn. The gate was unlatched, and Charlie and Billy hurried on the other side of it, quickly followed by Dirty Steve and myself. Chavez brought up the rear, staying behind us the whole walk leading to the door step. He sensed something in those seasoned bones of his.

“Whoo-wheee!” Dirty Steve whistled, stepping inside. Among the walls hung vibrant tapestries and a menagerie of animal hides, pelts, skins, bones. “Y'all sure we got the right address?” Smack in the middle of the dining table was a bounty of fresh fruit over a bowl of ice. Six seats were arranged symmetrically. Another four seats were turned over in a stack by the larder.

“ _I'm sure_ ,” I sighed, briefly regarding the telegram. An antiquated portrait depicting a man in turn-pin spectacles caught my attention. Maximilian Birdwell—The first, I supposed. There was a silence and then I think one of us chuckled at the likeness. “But you don't just go touchin' anything yet, Stephens.”

“Yeah, Dirty,” Billy chimed in, wearing a shit-eatin' grin that held back a rowdy cackle. “At least wait'll Mr. Birdwell shows up 'fore you demonstrate how much you appreciate his hospitality.” He'd been quiet till now, occupied with sights and sounds of the unfamiliar and reassured by the collective presence of pals.

There was a scuffling coming from the other end of the house. Billy's hand went automatically to his holster.

“Are you _crazy_ , Kid?!” My voice was low but nevertheless frantic.

“Get off my back, Scurlock. I was stretchin' is all,” said Billy defensively.

Dark eyes over a protruding nose. Coarse hair. Bad breath.

A large dog was no way to be greeted.

Charlie's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates and the teeth Chavez bared at the thing were twice as menacing as the silvery canine fangs.

“Now, Thorn. . .” A sturdy gentleman, staggering well over six feet tall, Mr. Birdwell appeared suddenly to reprimand the dog. Glasses and all, the man was the spitting image of the portrait—save for a few extra pounds and a neck-tie emblazoned with curious marks. “These men are our guests,” said Mr. Birdwell, extending a handshake to Charlie, as he stood closest to Birdwell. “A regular gargoyle. Do excuse, Thorn. He's like that around new faces.”

“ _He's_ excused,” said Billy. His hands relaxed but the arch in his back remained.

“Now c'n we eat?” asked Dirty Steve.

“Where are my manners? Dig in, dig in!” Max floundered eccentrically. “There's plenty for everybody and plenty more after that!”

 

***

 

Dinner was awkward, _tense_ to say the least. None of us hit it off very well with Mr. Birdwell—We tried to reciprocate the smiles and the how-do-you-do's—myself especially—but as the night dragged on and after so many do's, well, the task of manners was harder, and our heads hung wearily.

Chavez exchanged uneven glances with the dog. Billy's patience was as thin as the veneer that seemed to cover half the house. Dirty Steve's kindliness only lasted as long as each course of vittles. Through fitful yawns and scurrilous winks, Charlie Bowdre kept up his end of the conversation. Nudges couldn't wake him, and I blame the host.

It was me and Max.

“So. . .”

“So,” I said.

“You must be—”

“Josiah, sir. Josiah Scurlock.”

“Ah.” Mr. Birdwell pressed his lips together. “Doc?”

“Yessir.” For the first time at that table, my smile was one formed by sincerity. Mr. Birdwell offered me a glass of champagne, relief from the aches and pains of horseback (and the rigidity of first-impressions).

“I couldn't help but notice you looking at that portrait all through dinner, Doc. . .” Mr. Birdwell grinned and took a look towards the portrait himself. “Mmm. The resemblance _is_ quite remarkable,” he beamed, laughing lightly, so as not to wake the others. He was thoughtful in that way.

“Yeah, I was just thinkin' it must be nice to be able to connect to somebody so closely.”

“They say there's born at least three people who look exactly alike—This goes for any person. Family resemblance doesn't count, of course.”

“Now, you won't tell me you honestly believe that hogwash, Mr. Birdwell, a smart man like yourself.” In no time at all, the apricot-infused champagne had me smothering him in compliments.

“Oh, I believe it. _Definitely._ ” His focus gathered round my face where his mind drifted off into some astral conference.

Mr. Birdwell offered me another glass of champagne, a glass to which I turned my nose up and shook my head. Whenever I'm tipsy I tend to paint clear pictures. And it would be ugly should the pictures become any clearer. I'd start saying things I didn't mean, and mean things I didn't very well say. Drunkenness was a vice unbecoming of a man in my position—seated across the table from a gentleman with a lot of powerful connections, and who only meant well. After all, he was a friendly acquaintance of our very own McSween, and a man after the heart of the late and beloved John Tunstall. May he rest in peace.

It was with dear Tunstall in mind that I bid Mr. Birdwell a peaceful sleep, and (formally) thanked him for the warmly welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you have enjoyed this work and enjoy the forthcoming chapters!
> 
> If you have a comment, feel free! I would love to hear from you!


End file.
